


Soulmates (Devotion)

by Aryas_aria



Series: Jonrya Week 2020 [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, a game of thrones - Fandom
Genre: Blood, Book Spoilers, Dark, F/M, Major character death - Freeform, Show Spoilers, Suicide, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-19 14:16:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22479049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aryas_aria/pseuds/Aryas_aria
Summary: Part 2 of Wounds (So Lonely, Nightmares) in which we see what Jon has really been up to during the years away from Arya, and a culmination of the tale
Relationships: Jon Snow/Arya Stark
Series: Jonrya Week 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612894
Comments: 8
Kudos: 58
Collections: Jonrya Week: January 2020





	Soulmates (Devotion)

“Throw me the blade. Some things are worth spilling blood for.” –Circe, _Circe_

***

Jon used to love his dreams and hate his nightmares, as any man would. Now though, he knows they are much more than that. Some days, these dreams and memories are all he has of his family.

The first vision he had after leaving Winterfell had been disturbing, a dream of Arya frightened in the woods, and throwing stones at Nymeria. He had known that to be false as soon as he woke, for Arya would never hurt the wolf pup he had given her, and that wolf would never leave her side.

But once he reached the Wall, Uncle Benjen had a letter from Lord Stark about the incident with Arya and the prince, and Jon knew then that his dream had told it true. But he would not fully understand the weight of this divine gift until much later.

The next dream, then should have warned him that his life would change even more than before, but even he could not have foretold just how much. In his dream he was burning, yet frozen in a tree, high up in a mountain, with small children and ravens circling overhead. The freezing he understood, after all, he came to the Wall to join the Watch and become a ranger like uncle Benjen. He just didn’t anticipate uncle Benjen and maester Aemon telling him that they were _both_ his uncles and that he would be going to the true north, not as a ranger, but as an apprentice to his long thought dead cousin Bloodraven. Maester Aemon sent Jon, Ghost, and uncle Benjen through the sacred tunnel of the Wall with a dragon egg of scarlet scales and golden flecks and that was that.

The trip North had been cold and lonely, even with uncle Benjen to keep him company. How could he not have resented his uncles then, the both of them? For sixteen years, he had lived as a shameful bastard, all the while his uncles had known that he was the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, the last Targaryen after Robert’s Rebellion. It hurt to think that he would not get to tell Robb and Arya the truth for years yet, to think of how much he would miss them. Even then, he should have known then that his feelings for Arya were changing, that it was more than just brotherly love that had him longing for her so, but he was still just green boy who had not yet begun to truly have green dreams.

The next time he felt terror, it was more of a waking nightmare as he saw the albino man with milk white skin and blood red eyes, rooted deep into the weirwood tree for the first time. _Bloodraven_. The greatest or worst Hand the Seven Kingdoms had known, depending on who one asked of course. He should have clung to uncle Benjen more then, forgiven him the secrecy and the lies when he still had time, but he still did not know what was yet to come. When he first saw the corpse on the wooden throne, he should have turned back, but the Three Eyed Raven had known what to say even then. “You have a destiny, Jon Targaryen, and you must fulfill it. All of your family will die if you do not do as I command, if you do not surrender to the Old gods and red R’hllor.” He had been persuaded to stay, how not when his family had been threatened? Bastard or trueborn, they were still all he had.

When he first dreamt of Arya up in that cave, he should have known then that things would never go back to how they were. Never mind the dragon egg’s growing heat by day or the sullenness of uncle Benjen by night, when he first dreamt of Arya naked, it should have been a sign. He had been embarrassed after, when he awoke to find himself flushed and painfully hard, even more so to remember that his sister was only twelve. But she hadn’t been twelve in the dream, oh no. In the dream, she was older, fuller, but still a slender woman, her hair was brushed and shined with oil, and the nightshift she wore left nothing to the imagination. And best of all, she kept returning to his dreams every night after that. All he had to do was close his eyes, hands brushing up against the thick weirwood roots softly, and she would come, this woman who was his everything, his Arya. It had felt like torture then, to want a girl who was years and kingdoms away, to feel so alone despite the children and Bloodraven and uncle Benjen.

The dreams of Arya never really stopped, but he did grow to resent the power to see through time and visions when he saw Lord Stark’s beheading. It wasn’t really even a dream, again, but a vision this time as he sat tangled up in Bloodraven’s web. He watched Sansa scream and Ned Stark’s bloody head roll down the Sept of Baelor as his lifeless body slumped to the ground, he watched as gold cloaks snatched Arya from the crowd. He had screamed at Bloodraven then to let him out, to let him go back south and kill them. “Just let me save Arya, then I’ll come back, I swear it. I’ll do whatever you want, but please, don’t let them hurt _her_.” His words fell on deaf ears as Bloodraven replied, “your dragon has not hatched, you have no business down south yet.”

The next time he dreamed, it was of Uncle Benjen smiling, which was odd to say the least, for his uncle had not smiled since they left Winterfell, but it was not unpleasant. He resolved to get uncle Benjen to smile for true when he woke, only to find the man’s cot gone, not a word as to where he had gone in the vastness of winter. The paste they gave him after that, and the dragon they brought back to him, small and red and biting with scarlet-golden flame, distracted him enough from thinking of uncle Benjen. But he sometimes wondered if his uncle ever made it back to the Wall safely.

Things were monotonous after that, and he did wish for some excitement to break the strain. He trained with Dark Sister and played with Lyraxes by day, dreaming of Arya by night. His nights always belonged to her now, which really wasn’t so different from before, when she would sneak into his rooms and demand stories and cuddles as a child. But she demanded much more from him than just stories now. She was always happy though, lovely and wicked and content to be by his side. She never once cried or screamed though he knew she must have been sad at Lord Stark’s passing. It made him want to sleep more than wake, made him want to dream more than work, and that was a dangerous thing.

The gods always knew how to punish him. Of course they wouldn’t let him be happy dreaming of Arya in such a way, wanting her like that when she had been raised as his sister. Hero or no, the gods would not tolerate such dishonor. And so Bloodraven had showed him Theon’s betrayal, Bran and Rickon butchered and burned and put on display.

He had not stopped then though, oh no, for Jon still dreamt of Arya despite it all, and so he must needs be punished more.

The day Bloodraven showed Jon of Robb’s death was the worst day of Jon’s life. He had tried so hard to reach out and stop Roose Bolton’s hands, even to push Lady Catelyn away from the blade at her neck. It had all been for naught. Nothing had changed, Robb was still dead no matter how he screamed or shouted or shoved, Robb was gone. Robb. His brother. He never even got to tell him the truth. “Why do you cry?” Bloodraven asked, detached and cruel.

“Why show me this if not to make me cry?” Jon flings back at him, hard and angry. “All you show me is death! My mother’s, my father’s! You said if I stayed all of my family would not die, and yet….yet the Starks are gone and I remain.”

“But all of your family is not dead.”

“No,” he gasps, understanding gripping him. “No, you cannot take her away from me, please, please.”

“You say all I show you is death, but that is not true. Do I not show you the one you love above all others? Is she not the Alysanne to your Jaehaerys?”

“You… _you_ show me the visions of Arya?” It takes him aback, and for a moment he cannot speak. “But, but why? Is this not why the gods punish me? For loving her like this?”

“You think the gods truly care about such things as that?” Bloodraven almost seems to scoff, becoming more man than tree for a moment, a Targaryen bastard in every way. “Have I taught you nothing? You must defeat the enemy, that is all the gods care about. You may love who you will: sister, cousin, it does not matter. Besides, they would hardly curse a bond they created themselves.”

“But why punish me then? Why kill my family if not because of love for her?”

“It had to be done,” Bloodraven answers simply, and he is the Three Eyed Raven once more, no explanation or apologies, just the simple truth that this is the way it has always been and will always be.

“You said a bond they created,” Jon thinks back to his Arya, to the word Bloodraven spoke so carelessly of.

“Aye, I did. All your cousins were born wargs, same as you. But the girl is powerful, maintaining a connection with her own beast despite the distance and her own rejection of it. And she has green dreams as well. She has been a part of your destiny even before you were born, as you are part of hers.”

“Then please let me go save her.”

“Patience, young one. The real threat must be dealt with, then you may cross the Wall and win back your birthright, and your lover.”

Suddenly, it dawns on him. If Bloodraven is putting these sights of Arya in his head, it must be to mask something truly terrible. “She’s being hurt isn’t she? She’s suffering, but you hide it from me. Because you know, _you know_ if I were to see such things that I would leave this cave, that you could not stop me.”

“In time you will know all.”

“Can she see me? Do you fill her dreams as well?”

“She cannot see you here, beyond the Wall. She cannot share the wolf bond with you now.”

“The wolf bond?”

“The link between your direwolf and hers, they are bound as well.”

“Enough of your coded words! Tell me now what must I do?” Jon thrashes, wishing he could unsheathe his sword and … and… and what? Take on all of Westeros alone? Leave the Wall and doom all of humanity to The Great Other’s clutches? Loathe as he is to admit it, he must finish his business here before he can return to Arya. But by the gods, every man and woman and child that hurts her will pay, he will make Winterfell and King’s Landing her bride price, he will pay her debts with fire and blood.

“When the time comes you will leave this place and never see me again.” It is a promise, a blessing, a plea to do what must be done. Jon will accept this bargain if it means one day getting back to Arya.

The dreams come more frequently after that, sometimes two or even three a night. And he spends them all loving her, delighting in her smile and her wit and her body, wishing it could be for true when he wakes. The longing for her never goes away, but the desire to save her roots him in his purpose, makes him absorb every piece of knowledge Bloodraven imparts on him.

He relishes in the red flames Lyraxes sprouts, in the way her red scales stretch and twist until she is big and bold. And years later, on the day he can finally mount her, when Mance Rayder’s army and the Night’s Watch stand side by side in that frozen wasteland behind him, when Ghost prowls through the snow behind him menacingly, he takes flight. Up and up and up he goes until they are all nothing but a speck of dust. For a maddening moment, when he is so high in the air he thinks that even Bloodraven cannot see his treacherous thoughts, he wants to head back South, to free Arya before dealing with the Threat. The thought leaves as soon as it comes, however, and even among the clouds and the freedom of the sky, Bloodraven fills his head.

He clutches his dragon’s back as his eyes gloss over and his mind is filled with the vision and the feel and even the scent of Arya. She is not the woman he’s spent years dreaming of loving, oh no. She is a pale corpse, skin white and rotting, eyes an unnatural blue. “This is the destiny that awaits her should you fail,” Bloodraven’s gravelly voice fills his head. “Would you abandon her to such a fate?”

The cold hits his face in a rush as he comes back to his senses, sees Ghost lead the way as his men march. “Stick them with the pointy end,” he mutters to himself, flying overhead as his army crashes with that of the undead. Time seems to stop as he whispers the word Bloodraven had taught him, “dracarys,” over and over until he thinks Lyraxes surely must have no fire left in her lungs. But his dragon treks a blood red path across the sky, her scarlet temper merging with his until all he sees and thinks is burn, burn, _burn_.

It is in the midst of this that he sees the Night King for the first time, and even high up in the sky, it sends a chill through him. The ice horns on his face, the glacier sword in his hand, even the glazed frost of his armor do not terrify him half as much as his piercing blue eyes, the same unnatural blue Arya’s had been in his vision. This is his destiny, his fate, and he will not run from it, for it will also lead him to Arya, his love, his mate, his soul.

He grounds Lyraxes far away from the monster when he sees a spear begin to take aim. And on foot, beyond all hope and reason, he and Ghost clear a path to the creature, to his death or his glory. Dark Sister gleams in his hands, and he prays to the gods that he will be as formidable as the ones who wielded the sword before him. Let this be his proof of legitimacy: the way his feet are swift and sure like lethal Visenya. And the ruthlessness with which he attacks again and again upon that icy Night King? That is cruel Maegor. The White Walkers he sends to hell with an unrelenting vengeance is inconsolable Baelon, the terror he possesses is vicious Daemon, and the poise is noble Aemon. But the wisdom, the feint to let the Night King grip his neck in false victory, the ploy where he seemingly drops the sword, the speed with which he plunges it in to the Night King’s belly? That is cunning Brynden Rivers.

The ice falls around him and his men in a storm as his united army shouts in joy and triumph and disbelief. It is not over for him though, and soon he mounts Lyraxes to fly back to Bloodraven’s cave. “Show me,” he says without preamble. “I have killed your beast and saved all of humanity. Show me Arya, show me what I must do.”

“Well done my child,” Bloodraven says, a smile gracing his features in what Jon is sure is the first time in a hundred years. “To cross the Wall, you must burn it.” That takes Jon aback, but he cannot comment before Bloodraven forges ahead. “The Wall was meant to keep the Others away, to protect the living. You have seen to their destruction, and so the Wall must fall now. You have united the Watch and the Wildings, and soon you will unite all of Westeros behind you, this will be your legacy, the son of ice and fire.”

He takes it all in for a moment, just one moment where he can relish in the victory he has won here today. He closes his eyes and sees Winterfell, the visions of his mother growing up there and himself, and he feels Ghost enter the cave then, silent and ready. _Son of ice_. He senses Lyraxes outside the cave, eager to be away from this cold wasteland that she has only ever known, remembers the visions of Field of Fire and the black ruin of Harrenhal Bloodraven had filled his head with for years. _Son of fire_. But he needs his queen.

“Show me Arya. For true,” he kneels at the base of the weirwood throne, grasping a root and bowing his head in reverence. “Show me my bride.”

Visions of Arya fill his head, not the sweet ones he has come to know and crave, but the truth, the way these past six years have been for her. He sees her watch as Ned Stark’s head is cut off, sees the anguish on her face as she is forced to wear Grey Wind’s at Joffrey’s behest, growls in anger as she is beaten and whipped, wails in pain as her spirit is all but crushed again and again until she is alone in the Red Keep. He watches her cry enough tears to flood Mother Rhoyne over the years.

The entire time the Children chant and Lyraxes heaves until the Wall is nothing but burning stone, even while his army filters through the ruins far too slowly for his liking, he remembers that last vision of Arya. It makes him crave blood. And he vows he will have it.

***

Winterfell holds such painful memories now, especially when he can see it as it was in his youth, or even as it had been for his mother and uncle Ned and uncle Benjen, or better yet, how it grew under Bran the Builder’s guiding hands. It makes him sad, to know that the Winterfell of his dreams is a far cry from the broken and burned ruin he has won back now. He tries to wash the taint left by the Boltons away in blood, Ghost and Lyraxes both devouring their fill of bodies until it is just his men and those loyal to House Stark. And because he cannot look at a tree and not see little Bran climbing it, or saddle a horse without thinking of Rickon’s laughter, he flies to the Iron Islands, sending the old way to hell because what is dead will stay that way on his watch.

He claims Winterfell in her name, sets Howland Reed to recounting the tale of his birth, and invites all in the Seven Kingdoms to join him or die, but he will have his Arya back. They flock to him in the hundreds after the singers begin their songs, terrible and bloody and fiery accounts of Jon’s gruesome reclaiming of Winterfell for his cousin, his bride, his mate. They sing of his wolf and his dragon and him, of the girl he loves above all others, the beast within that burns by day and howls by night. It would frighten the boy of his youth, to hear such things spoken of him, but the man he is now barely spares it a thought. If this is what he must become to win Arya back, then so be it. She is worth every drop of blood spilled.

It is easy to get House Tully and House Arryn to his cause of course, his future queen is kin to them after all, and it would be nothing for him to take to the sky on Lyraxes and devastate their lands. He knows what they all must be thinking, all the lords and ladies that pour in to see him and swear fealty. If what he did to House Bolton and the Iron Islands is anything to go by, then they had best be on the right side of his dragon and his wolf when he starts to march. And by the gods, the Freys and the Lannisters must count their days.

Those damned lions don’t see it that way though. Tommen is a boy in truth, only a puppet, but Jon will still run him through when he gets the chance. And that weak sniveling Lancel they think to marry her to? He hasn’t decided if Ghost or Lyraxes will get the pleasure of dining on the boy’s innards. And Cersei and Tywin will get what they deserve for the torment they put his Arya through. Arya, how he misses her so, especially now when Bloodraven does not fill his head with sweet dreams anymore, when he sees all too clearly the reality of her situation. He dreams of them putting her in furs and silks and Myrish lace, parading her around the Red Keep as if she is just an embellishment to their castle. He longs to set her beast free, counts down the days until he can run wild with it.

But more often than not, she rejects the bond with him and refuses to merge their dreams, to talk to him and sleepwalk with him in the shadow world. It hurts his pride and his heart, but he knows it is because she fears for him. That beautiful, precious girl he had left still cares for him, still wants to protect him, though men claim he is a savage now, a wonder and a terror in equal measures. She has always been this way, so loving and gentle for him, all for him.

“Arya, love,” he whispers one night in their dreams, just before she can leave him, “I am coming for you. I promise, I am coming.” And the next day, when Nymeria comes to him in the Riverlands, a host of wolves to do her bidding, Jon well and truly smiles.

***

She is asleep when she hears it, just a soft _tink, tink, tink_ in her mind at first, but then it grows louder, stronger. The gold cloaks come for her just as she realizes the sound is the bells tolling. Jon is here! The knowledge makes her bold in the face of these shaken men, but she will not fight them. She puts on her best smile, and dons a heavy black cloak carefully. Two soldiers each take her arm, but she is careful not to wince or cry out as they trek the path to the King’s apartments.

She looks at Tommen’s frightened face and remembers that he is only eleven, his gold and ruby crown too big to fit on his head. Cersei flanks him, a rich and thick coat of crimson draped over her golden shoulders and a wine glass dangling precariously in her right hand as they both survey the scene. “Come,” she says, motioning for Arya to stand beside them. “Watch as my father defeats your precious little king once and for all.”

Illyn Payne comes beside her, Ice in his hands and she hates him for still having that sword all these years, her _father’s_ blade. But she keeps her composure, watches as a man on mounted horse gallops among the battlements, his long golden cloak flowing behind him. She smiles to know he is there, for Jon will surely kill him now.

And the men on the other side must smile to see Tywin Lannister too, for the shout that comes from across the field can be heard even by them. And it is then that she sees it, a monstrous grey wolf standing next to an even larger white one, hundreds of others circling them in the midst of the men. She sees the banners blow in the wind, a leaping silver trout that makes her heart clench, a sky blue falcon soaring high, a spear pieced sun, and even a crowned stag prancing the field. But the direwolf running the ice white field makes her dizzy with excitement, and the red three headed dragon almost has her swooning in anticipation. She doesn’t see a golden rose among them, but she notes not for the first time that Margaery has been absent from their suppers as of late. The Lannister woman stiffens when she sees that Arya is not at all frightened like she intended. “Ser Illyn,” Cersei sings sweetly, “Jon Targaryen may take the city, he may take the throne, but he will not take us alive. See to it that you slit her throat first, should it come to that.” Ser Illyn nods his head solemnly, looking at her as if she is nothing.

Arya looks back to the battlefield in anticipation. And it’s so quiet as she thinks _please Jon, if I cannot have you, at least you can have their blood. Kill them all, burn them all._ But then she sees it, sees him, soaring through the sky on a dragon redder than the one on his banners had been, monstrous and dreadful. That beautiful scarlet dragon lets out a roar so loud that it shakes the very floor they stand on. And now it is Cersei’s turn to pale as Jon’s dragon flies overhead, wings casting the city in shadows as she spouts cherry flames across Tywin Lannister’s ranks. His men take charge soon after, and when she closes her eyes she is in the fight. Soldiers fall to her razor sharp fangs, their flesh yielding easily to her claws as well.

When she opens her eyes again, she sees the dragon fly outside their window, so close she thinks she could reach out and touch it. Jon’s black armor gleams in the sunlight as he circles overhead. Ser Illyn grips her hand shakily as Cersei shouts, “what are you waiting for? Do it now, kill her now!”

“Mother,” Tommen utters, “perhaps we should treat with—“

“No! _NO!_ ”

“The gates have been breached, they’re pouring into the city—“

“Our men will fight harder than theirs ever could! They will defend the name of Lannister until the last man. The Red Keep has never fallen; it won’t fall today. Ser Illyn--”

“No!” Tommen shouts, “Ser Illyn, you cannot kill her. You must not kill her if we have any hope of surviving.”

Ser Illyn looks between the two, indecision evident on his face, and that is when Arya slinks over to the table, gently places her hand over a discarded knife and hides her hands back in her cloak.

“Stupid little boy,” Cersei roars, “he will kill us all! The least we can do is take her with us.” She stalks over toward Arya, Tommen’s pleas going wholly ignored. “I should have had you killed instead of the butcher’s boy all those years ago,” she spits, gripping Arya’s face painfully.

The next thing Arya knows, Tommen is crying as Cersei’s blood splatters onto her face. The queen clutches at her neck in shock and realization, stumbling back as her tears threaten to drown her. Tommen calls to her but is it no use, even now the queen grows pale and falls. Arya, for her part, looks at the boy king frantically, her knife ready to strike again if need be. But Tommen spares her no more than a glance as he goes back to the window hurriedly, sees Jon’s dragon perched on the roof of the building and leaps from the window. He falls so fast that Arya thinks she has been dreaming again until Ser Illyn elicits a gurgling sound, attempting to open the doors and flee before he is cut down. Ice falls from his grasp as a dark blade protrudes from his stomach, and when he falls too, Jon is there. A crown of black rests on his head to match his Valyrian steel armor and blade, his face is older and scarred but still so handsome. He’s the man from her dreams, her mate, her savior. His stormy eyes are angry, but they soften when he meets her own grey ones, and on hurried steps he comes to her, wiping the blood from her cheek tenderly before he kisses her almost painfully in a blend of teeth and tongue and torture.

***

He hasn’t let her hand go since he found her in that tower, face bloodied, hands clutching a blade as the Lannister woman’s body littered the floor by her feet. She’s beautiful, she is the girl of his dreams for true now, bright and beautiful and oh so lovely. He wants to do everything he’s dreamed of with her, to have her laugh and sigh and moan and tease and mock him, he wants to do everything in the world with Arya. And he will.

But first he will bind her to him for all to see. He brings her to the Godswood, a septon hot on their heels as well as tired soldiers and hesitant smallfolk. He is still in his armor, and her in her bloody cloak and night clothes, but it doesn’t matter. Together, they say the words for all to hear, together they finally show what he and the gods have known for years now, that they are one. “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger, I am hers and she is mine from this day until the end of my days." The septon unbinds their hands, but Jon still does not let her go.

“Mine,” she whispers in his ear, desperate and anxious and eager and _happy_.

“Mine,” he answers back, Lyraxes roaring in the sky, Nymeria and Ghost howling at their heels. “Forever.”


End file.
